


Spotted: chaos at odd hours

by chasing_givenchy



Series: Tutoring Mlle. Cosette [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Chocolate, F/M, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Secret Relationship, Slice of Life, The Cafe Musain could be the next Central Perk, Workaholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_givenchy/pseuds/chasing_givenchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marius was going spare trying to make their flat look as if it was inhabited by nuns, instead of two red-blooded post-adolescent male students.</p><p>"She's not going to run screaming out the door if she steps into a cheesy box of leftover pizza, you know," Grantaire pointed out unhelpfully.</p><p>Marius shook his head. "Pizza boxes are the least of my concerns. What if she finds our <i>Lance Hardwood, Sex Architect</i> DVD? I <i>know</i> it's been missing for at least two months, but—"</p><p>"Murphy's Law dictates that your Cosette will find it for sure?"</p><p> </p><p>A week into their lives: IMs, betting pools, virtue-protecting garters, and enter Cosette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spotted: chaos at odd hours

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for the late installment, but on the other hand it's a monster in terms of size? ~~Now if only I could figure out if that's a good thing or a scary thing...~~
> 
> This part _UNABASHEDLY_ inspired by the 1972 _Cabaret_ movie ~~my favourite movie of all time. Ever.~~ Seriously. You can practically play spot the references. I couldn't resist because Michael York looks like a younger Eddie Redmayne.
> 
> There is also one tiny, gratuitous _How I Met Your Mother_ reference.
> 
> Betaed by the flawless [fakeplasticlily](archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplasticlily), who would stay up all night texting me to make sure this fic turned out okay. (I have no idea how these even get done without her.) Any further mistakes are mine. I also apologise for any mistakes of German grammar and syntax. I will fix them ASAP as I identify them.

_January 12_

 

It took tripping over a pair of polka-dotted boxers left forgotten on the _kitchen_ floor one morning (the seventh pair in two weeks), for Marius to realise that it was about time he got his own place. Knowing how well his flatmate would react to news like that, he waited until breakfast to make the announcement. Hopefully he would be able to placate said flatmate with food first.

   "What do you mean, you want to move out?" Courfeyrac demanded, cramming half a pain au chocolat into his mouth. His hair was unruly, he looked like he hadn't slept a wink all night, and he had been grinning shamelessly five seconds earlier. All good humour vanished when he received the news. "I thought we had a good thing going on here. And besides, you can barely afford a second TV, let alone a place of your own."

   "I'm getting a second job." Marius tried to reach for a croissant, but Courfeyrac smacked his hand away. "Translating manuscripts is fine, but more money would be nice."

   "So we can get a second TV?" Courfeyrac glanced meaningfully at their existing TV, which wasn't quite hi-def and more of the carton-shaped variety.

   Marius sighed. "Courfeyrac, this may surprise you, but pretending to be your outraged boyfriend in order to get rid of your cheap shags stopped being funny after the first week or so. I've put up with finding strange underwear in unexpected places, and naked strangers doing unexpected things around our flat. It's _definitely_ about time I got a new place."

   "They were not 'cheap'."

   "Sorry?"

   "My _shags_. They were not 'cheap'. They were free."

   "Because free stuff is always top-quality."

   "Free stuff is priceless. _Literally_."

   Courfeyrac snatched the rest of his croissant off the plate and stormed off.

 

"Who do you think the boxers belonged to?" ask Grantaire, ambushing Marius outside the university's administrative office, where the latter had come to drop off some forms. He uttered the question with more gravitas and seriousness anyone had ever seen him apply to academics, as if the answer would unlock the secret to world peace. Or how two people could achieve simultaneous orgasms, because (to be fair) the two notions were on the same level of probability.

   "Jehan," said Marius automatically, unsettled by the intense gleam in Grantaire's eye. Joly and Bossuet were right behind him, and they, too, looked equally invested. "Feuilly? We haven't seen him around in a while. _Éponine_. Hate sex is really very popular around here."

   All three boys who had leaned forward at the first mention of a name, now looked considerably put off. Grantaire was sporting a scowl as if he'd just been told that Enjolras was committedly straight and affianced to someone named Patria Republiqué. Bossuet who had actually been taking down _notes_ , stopped midway.

   "Oh Christ, did you guys start another bet?"

   Shifty looks were exchanged, but no definitive answer was forthcoming.

 

Marius soon discovered that he was now unable to afford neither dessert nor liquor whenever he left the house. All his income was being diverted towards the dream of his own flat, and he wasn't sure which of the two aforementioned luxuries he missed more dearly. Translating manuscripts and newspapers all day paid well, but not nearly well-enough, so he found himself stooping to the impoverished students' last resort: teaching.

   A notice was put up all over the university that Marius Pontmercy was offering to give English and German lessons for five euros an hour. It was mostly Courfeyrac's idea, but he disdained the thought of even being mistaken as helpful, so he reacted with Mary Poppins jokes whenever the subject was brought up.

   It turned out he wasn't the only one who thought Courfeyrac's sudden dive into the deep end of abrasiveness was a little strange.

 

"Show of hands," announced Grantaire later that day, looking around at their table in the university mess hall. "Who else thinks Courfeyrac has been acting a little strange lately?"

   Courfeyrac, who had been buried in his phone, texting frantically, looked up curiously to see the results of the vote. It was nearly unanimous, except Jehan who was indifferently picking at his croissant, and Joly who was scrubbing furiously at the tabletop to get rid of the previous occupiers' leftover mustard.

   "Thanks, guys," said Courfeyrac mock-insulted, and Éponine tried to give him her yoghurt cup as a consolation. His gaze travelled around the table, noting that even Enjolras had raised a hand, skittered past Jehan, and finally landed on his own flatmate. " _Really_."

   Marius blinked like a deer in the headlights. "You took my head off when I tried to suggest I wanted to move out. It counts."

   Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, and the mood around the table suddenly soured. "Well, _et tu Marius_ and all that, I suppose," he said, getting up from the table and shrugging on his book bag with surprising violence. It accidentally clipped Jehan around the back of the head, and Courfeyrac looked alarmed, on the verge of an apology. Jehan didn't even look up, and Courfeyrac was gone in silence.

   There was a second's hesitation, and then Marius got up and followed him. Combeferre frowned at the tabletop, concentrating on trying to remember something. "Uh," began Grantaire, because there wasn't much else to say after that.

   Jehan bit off his croissant.

 

Enjolras was waiting in line to reach the besieged pastry counter of the mess when he gradually became aware of a pair of eyes trained on him. A few feet away, also standing in line, a blonde girl was staring openly at him. Unfortunately, this wasn't an unusual occurrence in Enjolras's life; Courfeyrac referred to them as "fangirls" who should be ignored, but this one was looking at Enjolras as if she wanted something definite.

   "Can I help you?"

   She smiled but shook her head. "Not really. I was waiting for my friend and I sort of recognise you. You're the one who sent that strongly-worded letter to the American authorities about the way they were handling Lance Armstrong's case. You have…"

   Sensing the perfect opportunity for spreading a good cause, Enjolras properly paid attention to her. Courfeyrac had also said something about girls being generally infatuated with Lance Armstrong, and he had no doubt he could count on her support with this, once he explained its importance to her.

   "…that friend with impeccable English? I heard him reading Mann aloud for Jean Prouvaire the other day. Would he — does he — I mean, your friend, would he have the time to give foreign language lessons?"

   Enjolras closed his eyes faintly and silently cursed. "He probably would. I'll pass on the message."

   She beamed at him. Whipping out a pen, she scribbled her number across a crumpled bill. "You'll give it to your friend, won't you?" she asked, pressing it into Enjolras's hand.

   He assured her that he would. It was certainly original of her, hitting on Marius by proxy. "His name's Marius by the way."

   "Mm-hmm. And mine's Cosette. I look forward to it. Oh there's my friend, I must go; see you around!" And she was gone in a whirl of golden hair and perfume. Enjolras could have sworn the girl she was walking away with looked like _Éponine_ , but surely not…

*

Grantaire had this habit of defaulting on deadlines, and then following Enjolras around everywhere with a laptop, pretending to be working on whatever he was supposed to have delivered days ago. It drove Enjolras spare. He had a sneaking suspicion the others put Grantaire up to this, because they always had nonsensical complaints about how he "worked too much" (as if skipping breakfast and swilling coffee and bread for lunch because he was too busy for anything else was a symptom of "working too much." What was next? Sleeping eight hours a day and taking hour-long showers? There was living efficiently and there was luxuriating laziness, and his friends tended to display the latter more than anything.)

   He was beginning to wish Grantaire hadn't accompanied him to the library. Enjolras needed to figure out the details of the next silent protest organised by Les Amis de l'ABC, and Grantaire was being a distraction.

   "A library is a silent zone," Enjolras hissed, when he couldn't take it any longer. "Do you _mind_ keeping it down? You're Tweeting too loudly."

   Grantaire blinked, but recovered fast. "I'll accede to that… in exchange for some consideration."

   Enjolras looked unimpressed by the use of big words. "I already told you, I am not joining one of your damn betting pools."

   "You have a one-track mind," huffed Grantaire. "I was going to suggest that you stop being a workaholic long enough to do something fun."

   "Define… 'fun'."

   Grantaire perked up at the notion of Enjolras so much as considering it. "I'm not sure. Maybe we could cut classes for the rest of the day and go to the Laudree? Or maybe somewhere that's cheaper. We all know about your secret and much-deprived fondness for cream and frosting."

   The very mention of the Laudree, the patisserie that had made the pastries for the _Marie Antoinette_ film, made something flicker behind Enjolras's gaze. Then the blue fire went cold, and he turned back to the work he'd been doing. "I don't have the time right now for that kind of inanity."

   Disappointment punched through the parachute billowing up inside Grantaire. "Oh," was all he said, and he went back to focusing on his phone.

 

When a "Cosette Fauchelevent" answered Marius's notice with a very sweet text about wanting to learn German, he accepted with alacrity and sincerely hoped she was extremely ugly and very rich. The first would keep Courfeyrac away from her and out of trouble, and the second would expedite his own plans for the future.

   And then xLittleMissFabx IMed him, and threw a gigantic wrench in it all.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : your screenames… interesting

 **xLittleMissFabx** : stabbed anyone in the back lately?

 **EtTuMarius** : Courfeyrac?

 **EtTuMarius** : Why are you calling yourself THAT?

 **xLittleMissFabx** : what

 **xLittleMissFabx** : this is cosette

 **xLittleMissFabx** : cosette fauchelevent

 

_EtTuMarius is typing_

 

 **xLittleMissFabx** : are you still there?

 **xLittleMissFabx** : youve been 'typing' for five minutes

 

 _EtTuMarius has logged off_.

_EtTuMarius has logged on_.

 

 **EtTuMarius** : Ah, Cosette. Hello.

 **EtTuMarius** : This must about the German lessons.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : yeah

 **xLittleMissFabx** : of course

 **xLittleMissFabx** : where are we meeting? off-campus?

 **EtTuMarius** : Yes. At my flat.

 **EtTuMarius** : Or elsewhere. Whatever you find convenient.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : the notice mentioned your apartment

 **EtTuMarius** : Would that be a problem?

 **xLittleMissFabx** : um

 **xLittleMissFabx** : its my dad. he can be *really* old-fashioned

 **EtTuMarius** : I have no intentions of assaulting your virtue, Mlle. Fauchelevent. I promise.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : yeah well props to you if you can convince my dad of *that*

 **xLittleMissFabx** : this is going to sound like a weird request

 **EtTuMarius** : Oh no.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : could you like make sure there's like

 **xLittleMissFabx** : a third person in the room?

 **EtTuMarius** : A chaperone? Certainly, if that will make you more comfortable.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : oh god. a chaperone. how about something that makes me sound less like lucie manette?

 **EtTuMarius** : I'll arrange for my flatmate to be present at all times.

 **EtTuMarius** : He's very nice. And not a rapist.

 **EtTuMarius** : I swear the lad doth not protest too much.

 **EtTuMarius** : Look, you could just bring a friend of yours along as well.

 **xLittleMissFabx** : ive seen you around on campus. youre too cute to share

 _xLittleMissFabx has logged off_.

 

"I'm going to need a chaperone this Tuesday."

   Marius had deliberately pitched his voice low so that only Courfeyrac could hear him over the usual noise of the Café Musain, but Courfeyrac, still mad at him, repeated very loudly: "You need a _chaperone_?"

   A few tables away, plugged into the nearest socket and working intently on his laptop, Grantaire looked up in amusement. Translated: his brain was whirring for an appropriate witticism, but the Carlsberg at his left hand slowed him down, and Courfeyrac beat him to the punch.

  "What for?" asked Courfeyrac, with convincing surprise. "To match the virtue-protecting garters you're currently wearing under your skirt, ma jolie fille?" He batted his eyelashes exaggeratedly, but Marius pushed him away in annoyance.

   "Don't be difficult. It's for the girl I'm giving German lessons to."

   "Anyone we know?" asked Grantaire curiously, momentarily abandoning the trollface memes he was browsing online once more. "I'm impressed you even found a student, after all. And one of the female persuasion, who's either somewhat rich or very pretty, hence the need for a chaperone?"

   "I volunteer for the post," said Courfeyrac immediately. The possibility of a rich and/or pretty girl was obviously an excellent incentive.

   Marius looked pained. "That's nice, but I would _really_ prefer Combeferre, if only he was here. Or if not him, then just about anyone else I can trust to not seduce Cosette the second my back is turned."

   "Cosette! Aha! So she has a name!" Grantaire immediately diverted himself to Facebook, to find out who she was. Courfeyrac was more pensive, running the name through his mental files, probably to figure out if she was someone he'd previously shagged.

   "Her profile's so private she could be a celebrity," grumbled Grantaire, when his Facebook search came up useless. "Even her photo is a group shot. Which one _is_ she? The blonde, the other blonde, the Rastafarian—?"

   Marius blanched, and even Courfeyrac leaned forward to check, wondering if he shouldn't have volunteered to chaperone this one.

   Enjolras made the mistake of walking into the Musain at that moment, and Grantaire fell upon him to identify Cosette from the group shot. Enjolras didn't even have a comprehensible (or polite) reply to that as he dropped into the chair next to Grantaire, visibly tired. He looked like a man who'd been fighting with the university's administration all day and losing. Badly. As he peered at Grantaire's laptop screen, looking for good news of some sort, a frown skittered across his face.

   "Grantaire," he began with inspired patience. You're supposed to be a political blogger, and all you do is surf 9Gag? You said you'd draw up those projections about how long we could run the website ad-free. What happened to that?"

   The supposed political blogger just tutted. "Speaking of the tricky question of sponsorship, would you like to contribute to our fund? The proceeds go to the person who can correctly guess the identity of Courfeyrac's polka-dotted lover."

   Irony was palpable in the situation, because just then their beloved fearless leader could have been a trollface meme himself. "You mean it's a betting pool," said Enjolras flatly.

   "No, it's a fund, the proceeds of which— for the love of those Bible-thumpers' god, Enjolras, how can you hope to inspire us towards a new future if you tune out of even simple conversations?"

   "So, it isn't a betting pool?"

   Grantaire shot him a disgusted look. "You're like a dog with a chew toy, aren't you?"

   "That makes what, four betting pools this month? Or six?" Enjolras looked around at the rest of them. "And I thought you two promised you'd stay on Grantaire's case until he actually met a deadline this time?"

   Guilty looks shot around the table. "Ah," said Grantaire recovering the fastest, "we were sidetracked by a crisis."

   Enjolras's eyebrows rose in polite incredulity, something Grantaire had countered and soldiered past endless times before.

   "Oh yeah. Marius is looking for a second job. To make enough money to get his own place."

   Enjolras looked as if this information vaguely struck a bell somewhere. "Oh, that's right. Cosette Fauchelevent was asking after you. She got in touch, after all, I see." All three boys looked thunderstruck by delight, but before anyone could confirm how good-looking she was, Enjolras looked beadily around the table. "So the crisis has clearly solved itself. Where are those projections?"

   There was the resolute sound of someone kicking attempting someone else, missing, and hitting the table instead. Grantaire airily waved off Enjolras's concerns. "German lessons were the minor crisis. We think Courfeyrac may have gotten himself a steady twink. Boyfriend. I meant boyfriend."

 

The postman had visited Grantaire's flat only to discover he wasn't home. A card was stuck in the doorway indicating that the box sitting innocently on the doorstep was a special delivery. Grantaire stared numbly into the contents of the box, unsure of what to think. It obviously wasn't from the Laudree, but when he flicked a bit of frosting off an éclair to taste, it almost passed for the real thing.

   Even the message on the card was unhelpful:

 _Bon apetit_. _E_.

 

(Grantaire 19:15) Haven't them yet, but they look delicious. Thank you.

 

(Jehan 23:04) Do you still need a 'chaperone'?

(Marius 23:06) You just saved a life.

(Jehan 23:07) Not quite as difficult as the song made it sound.

 

(Eponine 23:23) Damnit.

(Eponine 23:24) YW.

*

Monday dawned with Courfeyrac out on his morning run, Jehan reporting early for his chaperone duties and bringing Grantaire with him, and Marius going spare trying to make their flat look as if it was inhabited by nuns, instead of two red-blooded post-adolescent male students.

   "She's not going to run screaming out the door if she steps into a cheesy box of leftover pizza, you know," Grantaire pointed out unhelpfully.

   Both hands holding up the overflowing trash bin, Marius shook his head. "Pizza boxes are the least of my concerns. What if she finds our _Lance Hardwood, Sex Architect_ DVD? I _know_ it's been missing for at least two months, but—"

   "Murphy's Law dictates that your Cosette will find it for sure?"

   "Exactly. And wait. She isn't 'my' anything. Again, why are you even here?"

   Sprawled lazily over the couch, Grantaire smirked. "Merely revisiting the scene of the crime to discover clues to Courfeyrac's 'polka-dotted lover's' identity."

   Jehan frowned into the untranslated book by Mann that he was struggling to read, and imperceptibly shifted away from him. Jehan was possibly the least enthusiastic of them all when it came to the subject of said polka-dotted lover. He claimed it offended his artistic sensibilities, but no one had forgotten That New Year's Eve Party where Courfeyrac had slammed his lips over a drunken Jehan's at the count of midnight, and the two of them were not seen again for the rest of the night.

   "Polka dots were replaced by candy-stripes, but I'm still sure it's the same person."

   Grantaire just grinned, and whipped out a notebook to scribble this new information in.

 

Courfeyrac liked his morning run for several reasons, the most significant being that it gave him space to clear his head and stop thinking about how Jehan would be lounging around the flat all day, 'chaperoning' the mysterious Cosette. Avoidance is the best policy after drunken flings, and Jehan had clearly broken the unwritten rule by signing up for this post.

   By now, Courfeyrac was streaming sweat, but confident that he looked fit and positively glowing with endorphins, he took the stairs of his building two at a time as he came home. His good mood only spiked when he saw a well-dressed, incredibly attractive golden-haired girl standing outside his door.

   His immediate reaction was perfectly logical: he asked her if she was lost.

   "Maybe," she admitted, lips quirking in suppressed amusement. "You can't be M. Pontmercy. I'm here to learn German."

   Taken off-guard by the general lack of Rastafarianism, he recovered admirably and grinned at her. "Cosette, a pleasure. I'm Courfeyrac, M. Pontmercy's flatmate. Won't you come inside?"

   His entrance with a gorgeous girl at his side definitely had the desired effect.

   Marius and Grantaire froze mid-action, exchanging narrowed-eyed suspicion, before simultaneously looking at Jehan. Jehan calmly turned the page of his book.

   (All right, fine. Maybe not _entirely_ the desired effect.)

   "Oh. Hello. There's company." Courfeyrac swaggered into the drawing room, playing up every possible aspect of unfazed, confident coolness. "Jehan. How… unexpected." His smirk was completely at odds with his words, and Marius and Grantaire exchanged uncertain looks. "Have you met Cosette?"

   The blonde smiled warmly, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

 

Cosette Fauchelevent was unfortunately a far cry from "extremely ugly." The small part of Marius's brain that wasn't affected by the sudden loss of oxygen (from forgetting how to breathe) took stock of the way Courfeyrac's arm was slung low around her waist. This could not end well.

   "Marius Pontmercy," he croaked, holding out a hand. Trying not to wonder if her bed was the one Courfeyrac had spent the night, he added quickly, "Courfeyrac isn't the virtuous friend I was referring to earlier. This is Jehan. And that's Grantaire was just leaving. Taking Courfeyrac with him, of course."

   "I live here," Courfeyrac protested mildly, as if eviction were unthinkable.

   "You certainly do. So much so, that you're nearly becoming a shut-in. It's about time you got some fresh air."

   "I need fresh air after a jogging session?"

   Marius pressed his lips tightly together and silently tried to convey dire threats through the power of his gaze alone. Courfeyrac acted as if he had just been presented with a white fluffy bunny, and just beamed.

   The silence was broken by the loud ping of Grantaire's phone. He fished it out, eyebrows hiking to see the message on the screen. It was from Enjolras, and a bit odd. ( _I found a beer can under my sofa. Must be a relic from the last New Year's Eve party_.) _That's one hell of a random text_ — but even as he began to type the words, it wasn't lost on him that Enjolras himself knew what a complete inanity that message must be. And Enjolras was never inane.

   Grantaire began to grin to himself. If that text wasn't Enjolras's desperate cry for help to be saved from his own workaholism, then nothing was. "Excuse me," he said aloud to the assembled company, heading for the door and aware of the inexplicable grin that must be splitting his face just then. "It seems I have a special delivery to make."

 

Thus began the most awkward five minutes of anyone's life. Considering that Cosette was slated to be there for the next hour, it would just be more merciful for a freak asteroid to crash into the building just then and end their misery.

   Sitting in the large round table, it was like a mad tea party for the damned. The actual table was a wobbly-legged relic that had come with the flat when they first rented it, and Marius still wasn't sure why Courfeyrac sat across him, wedged next to Cosette, arm around her shoulders. Jehan was idly flipping through Marius's notes on the basics of German grammar, hoping to picking up tips. He was stolidly ignoring everyone else, occasionally catching Cosette's eye and shrugging helplessly. Since she had indicated her language skills were more rusty than poor, Marius thought it best to start with the pleasantries.

   "Guten tag, wie heißen Sie?"

   Cosette looked a little taken aback at the sudden plunge, but adapted quickly. "Ich heißt Cosette. Und deine?"

   It wasn't lost on Marius that while his original question had been politely formal, her reply was delightfully casual. The knowing smile she gave him sent a jolt through his heart. "Ich bin Marius. Es freut mich Sie kennen zu lernen, Fraulein Cosette. Wie geht es Ihnen?"

   Unfortunately, formality was a habit he couldn't shake, but it didn't exactly deter Cosette.

   Someone's foot brushed against Marius's under the table, and he dismissed it as an accident. And there it was again, the slow slide of warm human contact against his shin. Less subtle than before, and leaving no room for any hope that it was accidental.

   "Gut," Cosette sighed airily lowering her chin and turning the full power of those eyes on him from under lowered lashes. Next to her, Courfeyrac was idly tracing patterns on the back of her hand, but her gaze was locked on Marius. His heart rate shot up, painfully thumping in his chest. "Es geht mir _sehr_ gut, danke."

   "Ah, gut, gut," he repeated uselessly, momentarily robbed of words when he felt the same sensation again. It was unmistakable, and yet it couldn't be. Like the arch of someone's foot deliberately raking up and down the length of his left leg, toes kneading his shin through the fabric of his pants. His back went rigid with the effort of holding back any reaction. For a second he was alarmed, and then his alarm just grew. The sensation of slow pleasure spread like butter up Marius's body, or maybe butter mixed with wine. It was taking all of his nerve to keep it together and not melt into it.

   Cosette was looking at him, eyebrows raised ever so slightly in the silent question, and it struck him belatedly that he was supposed to be saying something. "Ich bin—" he managed out, because just then he felt his mysterious gratifier's foot rising single-mindedly up his leg, now firmly pressed between his thighs, nudging insistently in a way that him involuntarily parting his knees. He tried to soldier on, but it was now damnably difficult because Cosette was just looking at him with wide-eyed innocence, and there was nothing innocent about the way those toes were working between his legs. In fact, he might have been afraid for his ability to leave a legacy, but his gratifier was firmly in control, moving up his thigh in broad strokes, coming perilously closer each time to where Marius needed a human hand to be. (To either put an end to the madness, or to take care of it, he wasn't quite sure.)

   "Ich bin Marius. Es freut mich Sie kennen zu lernen, Fraulein Cosette—" It tumbled out in a desperate gasp as wicked toes found exactly where they were supposed to be. Marius's breath caught, partially because he couldn't afford to respond, and partially because he really was afraid for his ability to father children. "Kann ich meine Freunden, Jean Prouvaire—?"

   Cosette was frowning, a genuinely perplexed look, and Marius was certain he was going through several desperate odd movements to maintain his own straight face. "Können," she started, brow furrowing in concentration. "Können Sie langsamer sprechen? I didn't catch a word of that."

   The sudden pressure between his legs was gone, and Marius found himself hitching a breath of relief. Except that he was sure he couldn't get up from the table anytime soon, but maybe if the blood stopped rushing back to his head so fast, he could decipher what Cosette had said to him. He was certain she had spoken, but nothing actually registered, and then _Courfeyrac_ was shifting down his seat, leaning sideways into her. Burying his nose in Cosette's hair, he brought his lips to her ear, stage-whispering, "He said, _I'm Marius_. _It's a pleasure to meet you; may I introduce my friends, Jehan_? How rude of him, of course, what with me still sitting here. And also that's really some bad grammar, really Marius, how do you hope to teach if you can't tell 'friends' apart from 'friend'?"

   It was then that Marius noticed it.

   Courfeyrac wasn't looking at him as he said it. He was looking at _Jehan_.

   And despite the snide tone, Courfeyrac's brows were knitting into a rather well-disguised frown of… confusion. As if he was searching Jehan's implacable, unfazed face for a reaction that wasn't there. A reaction that Marius had done a reasonably good job of concealing until then.

   The two of them came to the exact same conclusion at nearly the exact same time. Courfeyrac swallowed his horror, and Marius tried to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands and _disappear_.

   " _M. Pontmercy_ ," started Courfeyrac, imitating Cosette's tone perfectly. Marius wanted to kick him under the table but Courfeyrac was sitting too close to Cosette. His friend pulled out the good-natured mockery usually to hide extreme tides of emotion (he'd obviously been hanging around Grantaire for too long) and Marius was dreading the ensuing conversation. "Can I see you in private for a second?"

   "Ja-uais," stuttered Marius, mixing tongues. "Ouais," he repeated, fortifying himself and marching into the kitchen, not waiting for Courfeyrac to follow.

 

Cosette found herself abruptly left alone at the gigantic table, with only the extremely quiet Jean Prouvaire for company. "Hello," she said uncertainly. He fractionally lowered his book and smiled at her.

   Taking this as encouragement, she ploughed on, "Was it just me or did your friend Courfeyrac have a giant polka-dotted handkerchief sticking out of his pocket?"

   Jehan ducked into the book, and for a second she thought he was blushing furiously. Then she realised he was trying very hard to stifle his laughter. "That was mine actually. And believe me, that was no handkerchief."

 

The second they walked into the kitchen, Marius turned the faucet on and overturned a large bowl in the sink, directly under the spray of water. The resulting din was loud enough to drown his expletives in the tiny flat.

   "Christ, Courfeyrac, _Jehan_?"

   "Now you're just randomly saying names," said Courfeyrac, doing a pretty good impression of seeming unfazed. However, Marius, who wasn't buying it, chose to ignore him.

   "How long has this been happening? Since the New Year's Eve? It's nearly been two weeks and all you do is let Grantaire run around taking bets, and _what is that in your pocket_?"

  "Laundry," said Courfeyrac simply, even as shoved the incriminating evidence out of sight. "You're always complaining that I never pick up after myself."

   Marius simply stared at him. "You're going to pretend the Nile is just a river in Egypt? _Really_? And it was what, Jesus mistaking my trousers for Jehan's and trying to get into them five minutes ago?"

   "Oh, that was me," Courfeyrac assured him. "And it was for your benefit. I didn't want you to move out, so I was trying to bribe you with sexual favours to make you stay."

   Marius grabbed at the edge of the kitchen counter, looking appalled and besieged. "Why are you incapable of airing your feelings like a normal person?" he moaned. "You and Jehan. Jehan and you. _Oh_ , is this why you've been acting so odd lately? And why you've nearly entirely stopped talking to him? And why you're so passive-aggressive? And why he acts like you're not in the room?"

   "That's a lot of deep questions, Poirot," said Courfeyrac, smirking. "Maybe you should slow down and give those little grey cells a rest."

   "Poirot was Belgian," muttered Marius. "And you're ridiculous. And I now know more about Jehan's taste in underwear than I can scrub from my brain with bleach. And so do the others by proxy."

   The jocular indifference snapped off Courfeyrac's face like a light. "You can't tell them," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You can't tell any of them, because Jehan can't know anyone knows. The only reason we've lasted even this long is because it's secret."

   "In all fairness, you two haven't been very subtle about it. The boxers tend to randomly show up everywhere like a leprechaun's pot of gold."

   Courfeyrac leaned back and revealed the hint of a smirk. "Unsubtle, really? And yet, last week Éponine thought that was Enjolras's underwear and he was having some kind of torrid affair with _you_. Didn't you wonder why she was so pissed off?"

   Marius blinked, taken aback. "She thought what? _Why_? I mean, why would she be angry?"

   "Ah, never mind," muttered Courfeyrac, backpedalling wildly. "As I was saying, the key to this is expert secrecy." He glanced involuntarily over his shoulder, in the general direction of where Jehan was, even though the latter was obscured from sight. "It only works because no one knows. No one's talking about it, or asking questions, or making assumptions—"

   "That's not what'll happen if anyone knows, Courfeyrac," Marius began quietly, but Courfeyrac just looked at him and the reassurance wilted like the white lie it was. "I won't tell. You might have to at some point, though."

   Courfeyrac shrugged, shoving his fists deep into his pocket. "Maybe. Or maybe there won't be anything to tell."

 

It was inevitable, really, what would happen next. Marius turned the water off in the kitchen and Courfeyrac replaced the bowl, and they shared one last complicit look before they wandered out to join the abandoned company. Cosette was chatting happily with Jehan, who was trying to compose atrocious pun-filled poetry for her. Marius had no choice but apologise for cutting their first lesson short but he had no idea how to get things back on track. Courfeyrac kissed Cosette's cheek, smiled in Jehan's general direction, and Marius stood stiffly by and let them out the door.

   He had no doubt he was never going to see Cosette at close quarters ever again. Not after this disaster.

   (Something twanged deep inside him at the thought, and he rationalised it by thinking that any regret was because she was so pretty. He couldn't dwell on Cosette because he would never see her again. It was pointless to think about her, because he'd drive himself mad that way, and still he couldn't stop.)

*

Grantaire stood outside the door, hair sticking up at odd angles from having battled the wind as he ran all the way from Marius's to his destination, cardboard box held carefully in his hands so as not to disturb the contents. Really, considering the dramatic nature of his arrival, he wasn't going to be foiled by something as stupid as a closed door, so he kept his finger pressed on the doorbell until it was answered.

   Enjolras's eyes were sunken and his cheeks sucked in from dehydrated tiredness. He radiated mind-numbing exhaustion from every pore as if he hadn't slept. Grantaire held up the box silently, grinning as he did. Enjolras didn't grin back, but gingerly lifted the lid, blinking blearily at its contents.

   Then slowly, he dipped a finger into it, scooping a corner of pink sugar icing on the pad of his thumb, and licked it off carefully. "It's good," he said neutrally.

   "Bon apetit, Apollo," said Grantaire, following suit.

 

 **xLittleMissFabx** : same time next week, herr pontmercy?

 _EtTuMarius has logged on_.


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